Matthew loved his dad more than anything. They weren't just father and son—they were a team. His dad was his hero, a sword master who could turn even the dullest blade into a weapon of precision. Despite having no magic, his dad's skill with a sword was unmatched, and he never let that stop him from training Matthew in everything he knew.
Their training sessions were Matthew's favorite moments. The clink of steel against steel in their backyard sparring area, the encouraging nods his dad gave whenever he blocked a tricky strike—it all felt like home. His dad always said, "You don't need magic to be strong. You need discipline and heart."
Matthew had taken those words to heart, even though he couldn't help but envy others who wielded magic effortlessly. Still, his dad supported him, never once letting him feel inadequate.
At just 16 years old, Matthew wasn't particularly imposing. His white hair and average build didn't scream "fighter," and his body was wiry rather than muscular. But what he lacked in appearance, he made up for in determination. He was fast, precise, and relentless. When he wanted something, he didn't stop until he got it.
Even his struggles with sleep couldn't slow him down. He had always been a restless kid, staying awake until his dad returned home from late-night shifts at the security firm. "You need your rest, kid," his dad would say with a chuckle, tucking him in despite the exhaustion in his own eyes. But Matthew never slept soundly without him around.
Now, on this particular night, sleep eluded him once again. The full moon bathed the house in silver light, illuminating the modest but well-kept home they shared. The walls were adorned with swords of every shape and size, each telling a story of his dad's adventures. The house itself was a blend of modern practicality and subtle magical touches—like the faintly glowing runes on the windows, wards his dad had insisted on installing.
Matthew lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts drifted to her—the girl he could never bring himself to confess his feelings to. "Can I really tell her how I feel?" he muttered under his breath. "No… she'd probably laugh at me."
Frustrated, he rolled out of bed. "I need a drink," he mumbled, heading for the kitchen.
As he passed his dad's open door, he paused. His dad was sound asleep, his hand resting near the hilt of his favorite sword, always within reach. It was a habit born of years spent as a swordsman, always prepared for trouble. Matthew smiled softly before continuing to the kitchen.
The house was quiet, the faint hum of magical wards the only sound. As Matthew drank his water, his mind wandered again. He thought about the last time he and his dad had trained together, how his dad had playfully scolded him for leaving his guard open during a spar.
But the memory shattered with the sound of a gunshot.
The glass slipped from Matthew's hand, shattering on the floor as he sprinted toward his dad's room. His heart pounded in his chest, a sickening dread washing over him.
"Dad?!" he shouted, bursting into the room.
There, silhouetted by the moonlight, stood a shadowy figure. A long coat draped over their shoulders, and the sharp edges of their hat glinted faintly. The figure turned toward Matthew, its presence cold and unnerving, before vanishing into thin air.
Matthew froze, his breath hitching as he looked at the bed. His father lay there, motionless, blood pooling beneath his head. A bullet hole marred his forehead.
"No…" Matthew whispered, stumbling forward. "No, no, no!"
He grabbed his father's shoulders, shaking him. "Dad, wake up! Please!" His voice cracked as tears streamed down his face.
But his dad didn't move. His once-strong hands were limp, his steady breathing forever stilled.
Matthew sobbed uncontrollably, clutching his father's lifeless body. "You can't… you can't leave me." His voice broke as he sank to the floor, his head resting against the side of the bed.
An hour passed, though it felt like an eternity. When Matthew finally pulled himself together, his grief was replaced by something darker. Anger.
His gaze flicked to his dad's bedside table, where his sword and handgun rested. He reached for the gun, the cool metal heavy in his hand. As his fingers tightened around it, an image flashed in his mind: the van outside, the strange symbol painted on its side.
Matthew grabbed a piece of paper and hastily sketched the symbol, committing it to memory. "I'll find them," he growled. His voice, once filled with sorrow, now carried an edge of steel.
But he knew a single gun wouldn't be enough. His dad had always told him about magic—about the power it could grant those who mastered it. Matthew clenched his fists. "I'll get stronger. I'll find magic. I'll make them pay."
His sorrow twisted into hatred, fueling his resolve. Nothing else mattered now. Not love, not fear, not even his own humanity.
He would hunt them down. Every last one.
And he wouldn't stop until there was nothing left.